“The old worldwhittling down to winter.Ice on my tongue: its wordless,numbing welcome. We bloodybelieved in war once; we cheeredwhen our children sailed off forthe Front. But now all languagefails me. Listen: ‘Army FormB. 104. November1918.’ ‘. . .a reporthas been received from the Field, France. . .. . . was killed in Action.’ There.Alexander has been killed –my couthie boy. Nineteen, lookedmore like fourteen. They told mehis howitzer was shattered –a shell ‘cooked off’ in the breech,and the bl...ast tore them apart.They were too keen of course, boysblown to pieces with that GreatWar days from won. Boom. And gone.I’m a blacksmith. I’ve seen whatwhite hot metal makes of flesh.My own wee Eck. I’m to blame.I was the fool who signed, andhim still far too young. Fifteen!His mother flung her mug atme, mute with rage. Each morningshe makes his bed; lays fresh clothesacross a chair. She’ll not speakhis name again. Her stare isa hard, black sloe. If fine rhymesrang like iron, hammered bright,hot with meaning they might weighmore in my heart.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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